The other day I was grocery shopping in our local ShopRite. I was looking for a particular brand of rye bread that we have here in the east only I couldn’t remember the name. I know what the packaging looks like, no problem. But the name? Call it old age syndrome or whatever, I could not remember at the time.

I scanned the bread aisle in the section where it usually is, but no luck. There was a man restocking bread in the aisle, so I asked him. “Where is that really good rye bread hiding? Did you put it in another section?” He said something of which I didn’t quite catch the whole sentence but it included “Pepperidge Farm.”

“No, no, no,” I exclaimed. “NOT Pepperidge Farm, you know the really good Jewish rye!”

He looked at me kind of funny and said “Lady, I am trying to tell you that I am only the Pepperidge Farm distributor and I have no idea which bread you are talking about! If you could tell me the name though I might be able to help you.”

“OHHH ...” I said. (oops!) “Sorry! And no, I can’t remember the name just now. Thanks, I’ll keep looking.” And I did. I scanned that bread aisle from front to back and high to low, yet I didn’t see the familiar package on the shelves.

Finally I gave up and went back to where he was still restocking the Pepperidge Farm breads.

“Oh well,” I said to him, “I guess I am going to have to settle for Pepperidge Farm this time.”

He stood up, put his hand over his heart and said “OUCH. You’re killin’ me here! You’ve really wounded me. Settle for Pepperidge Farm? That hurts!” And then he laughed.

I picked up my Pepperidge Farm Whole Grain Rye bread and put it in my cart. He approved.

One of the many small reasons I love living where I do is the people I encounter every day.

The Pepperidge Farm rye was not nearly as good as this rye, which of course I remembered the name of once I got home. But please don’t tell him I said so!